


Paint Me Red

by slutsofren



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, F/M, Past Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:54:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24874990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slutsofren/pseuds/slutsofren
Summary: Being a struggling artist in a city filled of aspiring artists has always been rough, you were privileged enough to have a semblance of steady income thanks to the promotional work your manager, Poe Dameron, does for you. For the past however many weeks, you've become consumed with the works of an anonymous poet, one who has captivated their own cult following. Their works have inspired countless paintings of yours and in turn, you catch the eye of one Kylo Ren.
Relationships: Ben Solo | Kylo Ren/Original Female Character(s), Kylo Ren & Reader, Kylo Ren & You, Kylo Ren/Reader, Kylo Ren/You
Comments: 6
Kudos: 12





	Paint Me Red

You kept looking at the painting. No matter how many times you re-painted, reinterpreted this poem, your hands just couldn’t find a consistent translation between the words and your paint. You dropped the brush and leaned back in the chair, hanging your head as far back as you could and let out a loud groan.

“Why does this have to be so  _ complicated _ ,” you exclaimed to nobody in particular. It’s been a month since you cooped yourself in this studio, a whole month! It felt like you’ve accomplished nothing but waste canvas and paint this entire time. All along the floor laid waste to the discarded abstract portraits you had produced and hated. Nearly a fraction had been left unfinished due to it just not working out.

You mumbled and grumbled while you stood and relocated to the workspace of the studio, where a computer and books had been thrown about. The computer woke, nearly blinding your eyes.  _ What time is it anyways,  _ you wondered. The sun had set some time ago, you knew just as much when you could barely see your work and were forced to lose focus to turn on a light. That distraction had really set you back.

A quick glance to your watch informed you that no, the sun didn’t just set a while back- it set well over six hours ago. The time had been creeping to two in the morning already, no wonder your eyes were straining so hard. When your computer unlocked and you opened your music app to play some background audio, you grabbed the leatherbound book that was inspiring your work.

Nobody knew who the author was, only that they released two-hundred and fifty black leather bound books with gold foiling titled “Mine” every couple of years. You were close friends to some editors down in San Diego, the same publisher that worked with this anonymous author and they were always kind enough to secure you a copy.

They wrote like it was the last thing they’d ever write, as if pain circulated through their veins. They wrote of being lost, being hurt, feeling such intense anger with no human outlet, and of being ignored and tossed away.

Sometimes they wrote like they’d be dead before the poem had ended.

Much of this resonated with you. Ever since you moved to Los Angeles, this magnificent city of wanna-be actors and musicians, seeing lights that inspired yet mocked the pedestrians down below, you’ve felt like you were dead yourself. When you moved here, all you ever wanted to be was a painter. It didn’t always matter what you painted, you loved a variety of styles and eras, as long as commissions paid the bills and your personal pieces sold at galleries, you were satisfied.

But sometimes being satisfied wasn’t enough.

You took the black book and opened to the poem you had been hyper-fixating on for the last couple of months since it was released. You interpreted it in as many ways as you could style your hair on any given day. This one spoke to you the moment you read it, it broke your heart, mended it, then threw it away all at once. To you, this particular poem breathed new life into your soul.

You read each line over and over, admired how this poet seemed to write effortlessly, as if it’s just how they speak. Gosh, what you would do just to meet and have a conversation, to understand the mysterious writer’s genius. 

And so you kept painting, never seeing each unfinished canvas as a failure but rather an entirely different interpretation. You couldn’t let this get you down, you just had to keep working- keep picking up the paint and let loose.

As the days blended together, your manager, Poe Dameron waltzed into your workspace without a care in the world. You turned down the music that you had playing in the background while you worked.

He picked up one of your unfinished works, “I got you a gallery space, set for two weeks from now in Pasadena. Sponsored by the Norton Simon Museum.” The way these words rolled off his tongue was so nonchalant, you didn’t believe it.

You let out a choke, “Excuse me?”

“You heard me, you got a space, now give me something to tide them over with- oh, that looks nice can I take that one,” he grabs another unfinished painting. “Anyways, don’t worry about promoting it, they are all over it. They’re just calling it Artist Spotlight but they’re going to need a theme name.”

Your eyes drifted over your amazing manager, he worked just as tirelessly as you did with each and every one of his clients. It was no wonder he was married already, with a charming smile like his and the luscious hair to match made him a total darling.

“Let’s call it,  _ Paint Me Red _ .”

“You got it, girl,” he walked over to you and gave a chaste kiss on your cheek and left with his silent goodbye. Although you were nothing more than his client, you loved him very much. He always gave you a rough time when you needed it but was always a person you could rely on to tell you the truth when you needed it.

To sum it up, Poe Damereon was a guy you paid to berate you like a protective older brother and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Those two weeks passed and you worked even more tirelessly. The artist in you was seldom satisfied by your creations but your manager reaffirmed even your “trash” paintings were more beautiful than the best modern oil paintings for which you found yourself taking the most comfort in.

It was difficult to remove yourself from this mindset but as your gallery expanded with each rise of a new day, you became prouder of not just what you painted but of yourself. This was going to be a showcase that you were to be proud of.

Your night came which brought nerves like no other. Los Angeles had a rough art community to grow and develop but this was the place for you. You arrived at the gallery, dressed as professional yet as fierce as you could in a shimmery silver gown that bared your shoulders in a skinny strap that had a plunging neckline. You wanted to wow your crowd with your paintings and yourself.

You poured your heart out over this collection- you wanted, more than ever, to receive a warm reception and maybe a little bit of praise in the meantime. It didn’t make you vain, it made you human.

The director of the art studio welcomed you with a glass of champagne and let you wander the space before it opened to the public. Your heart swelled with emotion as you glanced over all these white walls that supported your artwork. Abstracts, sharp lines on some, a couple that resembled portraits of a human-like void. Anything and everything of what could be taken of that single poem.

Over some small amount of time, guests began to fill the building, allowing others to finally view what you’ve worked tirelessly over these past however many weeks, well, months really. As the newness of this exhibit of yours wore off, you began to get antsy, started to bite on the inside of your cheek.

You felt eyes on you as you hid your face behind the fourth glass of champagne you managed to snag. The more nervous you felt, the hotter the room got. This is beginning to be way too much- oh stars, you can’t breathe- it feels like you’re dying, like you’re-

“Are these yours,” a dark voice asked behind you. You stood up straight and turned slowly, trying to get your mind away from whatever was happening to you.

“I- yes they are.”

This tall, handsome stranger looked at the painting that was next to you, something that mildly resembled Everts’  _ Studies in Desperation _ series. It was one of your darker interpretations, something filled with a little more hatred and angst than the rest.

“They’re very nice, what inspired you?”

Your mouth opened agaped and quickly shut, you didn’t want to look like a fish now. You opened up your bag and pulled out your trusty copy of  _ Mine  _ and showed the stranger. “This poet, their selections have always called to me but,  _ Red, Mine  _ would repeat in my head nearly nonstop until I picked up a brush and painted what it spoke to me.”

He grabbed the book from your hand and flipped through it slowly, sometimes reading the short notes you had written on some of the pages, like “I love this one,” or even, “I’ve felt like this before”. As he took his time going through the leatherbound poetry, you took this moment just to admire just how handsome the man before you is.

He stood tall and confident, long black hair that looked soft enough that you had to refrain from running your fingers through; his face was littered with constellation-like moles that truly gave his presence some warmth and beauty despite his intimidating height. His large crooked nose stood just as prominent as his ears but, by the stars, he made it work. All of these features suit his being so well, almost as if he was your own personal Adonis, you wanted to paint his beauty. 

His long lashes finally looked up from your bookmarked page of  _ Red, Mine  _ where you had written very simply, “This one,” and a heart. He closed the black book with a small thud, almost entirely muted by the sounds of your audience mingling.

“You really liked that one,” he questioned as he handed the object back to you. You took it from him and gestured around you.

“All of these paintings represent how this one poem has made me feel. Loss, hope, anger, hurt, fear,” you paused while you looked at the man before you and held his gaze, “But most of all, this particular poem has made me feel accepted. Like I’m not alone. Almost like, it’s my turn to be strong, it’s silly-”

“No, by all means, no, it’s not silly,” he interrupted you. His eyes had grown wide and you realized he put his hand out to almost hold your shoulder but quickly retreated to put his hands in the pockets of his suit’s pants. His jaw flexed for a brief moment and he looked to his feet. “I have their collection too. It’s a good read from time to time.”

Your lips turned up in a small grin, “Yeah, they are. I’m glad to have met another Anonymous Poet enthusiast.” 

He looked up at you and cleared his throat, “What’s something you’d say to them if you ever could?”

“Hmm,” you wondered, “That I love their work, I’d love to sit down and talk, wonder what they think- what their thought process is. Maybe thank them for helping me cope and tell them that I don’t think I’d be alive without their words. Heck, I’d even work up the courage and ask if they like my interpretations of their poetry. I’m not sure, what would you say?”

He looked at you almost like you had shot him, “I think I’d simply say that I’m sorry they went through whatever they did to get them where they are. That they’re stronger now.”

Before you had a chance to respond, Poe came and placed his hand on your arm and called your name, “Hey, girl. Time for your speech and then people can start buying your art.”

You looked back at your strange new friend and he gave you a small encouraging smile, “It was nice meeting you.”

As Poe began to drag you away you piped up, “I didn’t catch your name!”

“Kylo- Kylo Ren.”

You gave him a small wave before you turned your back on him and approached the stage. Poe did the honors of introducing you, calling your vision “illuminating and awe-inspiring”. Finally it was your turn.

You approached the glass podium with only a mild case of anxiety shaking within your bones. The lights, however warmly hued they were to temper against the constant rotation of art still seemed like a spotlight on you. You cleared your throat.

“Hi- hello,” you introduced yourself, mentioning you're the creator, “Thank you all very much for being here and supporting me tonight. This entire exhibit is decorated with a wide variety of my illustrations in both dedication of and inspired by the Anonymous Poet, creator of  _ Red, Mine _ the poem. It is only fitting that I should read the very words that seemed to have possessed my mind these past couple months, you think?”

The audience gave a chuckle. You looked up and around, feeling hints of anxiety nipping at the silhouette of your being. Across the room, leaning against the small bar table, you spotted Mr. Ren and when he noticed you staring, he raised his glass of champagne. Urging you to continue.

It was almost as if his steady gaze and warm features guided your confidence to hold steadfast and ready, your courage multiplied and tingles at the tips of your body, sparking new found strength.This small gesture kept those dark hounds at bay in your mind.

You cleared your throat and began, “Red, Mine

This is how the story goes

It has never changed, never been altered

It didn’t make much difference

The twin suns are rising in the west now,

The world changed from when you knew me last

This is how the story goes

This life of mine would be snuffed in green lights

Then you were there to guide me

Truth is, you could never be thanked

I would never be forgiven

This is how the story goes

I snuffed the little lights that had mocked me

Tore down the buildings that confined me

I ran

I never stopped running

This is how the story goes

I found solace in red

This green and blue would have ended my life

The both of you tried and failed

I will live on bathed in black and red

This is how the story goes

This fire red consumed me

I consumed red

Now it’s your turn to run.”

At the beat of the last syllable, you could hear a warm applause, a gracious signal of congratulations. Your smile kissed the corners of your lips and your heart swelled with warmth. This was exactly where you were meant to be in life and you couldn’t be prouder of yourself.

Your speech wrapped up with the ceremonious thank yous and appreciation to all who came as well as the Norton Simon Museum for sponsoring the showcase. Not to mention the big fat check you got on their behalf.

Poe lent you a hand as you descended the platform, “Alright, now go mingle and sell some art!”

You gave him a warm kiss on the cheek and another wave of thanks. One hand took yet another glass of champagne as the other held your clutch tightly. Your heels clinked against the tile of the gallery as you floated in and out of conversation, selling your artwork and trying to network and make new professional relationships.

It was rather obvious that leaving early would be considered rude but your feet hurt as much as your eyes. All you wanted was your warm bed and soft music to lull you to sleep. You spotted Poe across the room speaking with a pale gentleman, donned in a navy blue suit and matching tie, his orange hair was just as slicked back as his authoritative presence. You watched as they shook hands and the stranger departed, leaving the building entirely without a glance back.

Poe caught your eye and his jaw dropped, just nearly bolting into a fast pace walk, attempting to keep whatever semblance of professionalism as he could without knocking any of the patrons over as he bee-lined straight to you.

“You will not believe what I’m about to tell you,” his brown eyes lit up.

You gave him a hesitant look, clearly it was good news but usually Poe Dameron was in a good mood usually meant him ending in some kind of trouble. “Then don’t tell me?”

Your manager gave you a deadpanned look and pulled out his clipboard, “Every single piece was sold before you even walked off the stage.” He handed you the order sheet and sure enough, each and every painting was bought by the same person, leaving only AP as the buyer’s name.

“AP?”

“Initials for a little someone called the Anonymous Poet,” with those words you instantly felt faint. There was no way, no goddamn way.

“Was that him? Poe, was that really him,” your voice faltered. Your hand rose to cover your open mouth, eyes wide.

He did nothing but shrug and give you a sly smile, admiring your shocked expression, “The man I talked to was not, rest assured, but clearly your muse admires you and your work.” Poe gave you a small squeeze on your shoulder, feeling your oncoming emotional whirlwind. “If you faint on me now, you won’t hear the best part,” he teased.

“What is it, tell me,” you rushed the words out as fast as you could, the heat licking at your skin as your anticipation mixed with anxiety.

Poe reached into his pocket and retrieved a sleek black business card and flashed it at you. “Expect an email within the next few days, your muse wants to talk with you.”

You felt Poe’s warm hands grasping your shoulders as you fell. After all, Poe did say to wait until after he gave you good news.

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts? Come yell at me @slutsofren on tumblr!


End file.
